


Chicago to Louis, St. Louis to Chicago

by hegemony



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Assassins & Hitmen, F/M, Identity Porn, M/M, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Semi-Public Sex, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-15 15:55:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7228936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hegemony/pseuds/hegemony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I know I’m no good,” Poe replies, checks his rear view mirror and finds the intensity of Finn’s gaze on him. “And this is what I do.” </p><p> </p><p>A fusion of Star Wars/TFA into a world where Marvel Cinematic Universe exists. Poe Dameron is a product of a Very Red Room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chicago to Louis, St. Louis to Chicago

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an avengerkink prompt of [Poe Dameron being the Black Widow](https://tfa-kink.dreamwidth.org/4613.html?thread=10749957#cmt10749957). Unbeta'd, like usual for these avengerkink prompt fills. Make no mistake, this is Cracky. It also tries to follow along a same path as the end of Captain America: The Winter Soldier. 
> 
> There are Bourne Legacy Easter eggs and untranslated Russian phrases and pet names, but not much of either. 
> 
> Title and End-note from Kanye West, _30 hours_.

It’s the first time they do this, just the two of them. No Rey, no Pava, no feeling of being a fugitive from the Order or the Resistance or whatever they’re calling themselves these days. It feels…off. Unsettling. 

Finn kisses him with the same surety he uses to talk about justice, even-keeled and firm, the right thing to do no matter how unpopular it is. He leans Poe backwards and spreads him out, peels back the layers of Poe’s suit to reveal skin and steel and bones. He leans down to take a nipple into his mouth. 

Poe makes a case for quiet endurance, like he always has. He accepts Finn inside him, the way he’s accepted countless others, and the way he’s been accepted several times before. 

Each movement jostles something deep inside Poe, satisfies a thirst he wasn’t sure if he’d had or imagined. It’s a good thing to know, the feeling of Finn’s strength wrapped around him, the knowledge that this man could break him in places few could ever imagine to. 

Yet Finn took it upon himself to choose this path instead, the comfort of traditional pleasures. Poe wraps his legs around Finn’s waist, giving himself this fine indulgence. Finn takes the gentlemanly path, building sensations held off for as long as possible, mouths and cocks and pushing-shoving contact all meant for that one moment of release. 

Poe doesn’t play it up this time, simply closes his eyes and sinks his fingernails into Finn’s back and snarls through his orgasm, bites his lip and rides through the oversensitive friction of supercock pounding into him. 

“You don’t have to stand out in the sun, you know,” Finn tells him afterward, every bit as Captain _fucking_ Truth as he is in the suit. “I could do it.” 

“People know you, even if they don’t know the person I do,” Poe replies. “Your testimony won’t mean anything to them.” 

“I know who I am, though,” Finn says, quietly. 

That should hurt, maybe. 

“I know who I am, too,” Poe says. “It’s time for everyone else to learn.” 

“Hard times are coming for you, you know,” Finn says. 

“If you think I fear pain, we must not know each other well enough,” Poe returns, dozing off. 

 

 

 

“What would you do with him if our Finnick weren’t in the way, I wonder?” she asks, wrapped in her battle dress of golds and greys. 

“I have methods for saved for occasions like this,” Poe says, thinking of the way Kylo recalled trigger points lain inside Poe meant to turn him into more than a spider with a necrotic bite, “Methods I haven’t used since Gorbachev.” 

His queen just smiles and nods. 

“Then blessings be upon you in your time of need,” she says, “my arachnid knight.” 

Poe’s pretty sure Rey doesn’t understand the difference between literalism and metaphor yet, but he lets it slide. 

 

 

 

The first thing he does after the hearing is get a haircut from a chain barbershop in Logan Circle. Long hair gets paired back, the sides taken in. The hairstylist looks at his face the entire time, like the question ‘who are you’ is caught in the woman’s throat. 

Good thing she doesn’t ask. Poe just burned every story he’s ever assembled for himself. 

He picks up a bleach kit and dye on the way back home. He’ll bleach a few streaks into his hair, tone it silver-grey. Look closer to his real age, just a bit. 

Back at his nest, he ditches the jacket, thumbing open the tie that Finn picked out for him, the one Finn said would make him look less like a communist killbot. 

“More reputable,” Finn said, “like a freedom fighter.” 

Like a freedom fighter, but Leia’s “dead” and Rey’s back amongst her space alien royalty, and the Knight of Ren is still at large. 

So, Poe Dameron doesn’t really know what freedom means. 

He remembers shards of synthetic freedom: his mother’s face, the way his mouth wraps around Spanish and Russian at the same time, the attack of his eagle formation in the first mountain dance he ever learned and the pain that jutted up and down his shins as he performed it for his superiors. The first time he ever got a handler killed. Meeting Lando. Meeting Leia, in her leather overcoat as she looks over him in his handcuffs. 

(“The matrix was science fiction, you know,” he’d said. “It’s probably bad to take fashion advice from it.” 

Leia looked him up and down and cracked a wide smile, “The same could be said for you, Mr. Dameron.”) 

He turns those memories over in his head, still not sure if any of them are real.

Poe handcuffs himself to the bed for the first time in years and sleeps like the dead. 

 

 

 

He is useless, right now. Poe has never been useless before. Thankfully, he knows the right person to call.

“Natalya. It’s lovely to hear your voice.” 

“Nicolaj. Spiders don’t play well together,” she singsongs, “you know this about us, darling.” 

“I know, _dorogoy_ , I know,” he sighs. “But can I call in a favor?” 

“Depends on the favor,” She says.

“I am looking for someone,” He says. “A ‘friend’. The Kremlin had some files, we’ve been brushing up against him for years. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s crossed your path, recently.” 

“Our war is over, Nicolaj. You never did seem to realize that, did you?” 

His toes curl in his shoes and he aches for the sharp pain of knuckles to knees and back again. 

“Lucky for you,” she continues, “I am looking for a ‘friend’ as well.” 

“Something might be arranged, then.” 

 

 

 

He sells the Porsche and leaves DC. 

He goes off to Bogota for a week, plays an heir to a Mexican Empire. ‘Like the most interesting man in the world’, Finn would say. 

He tries to be a bit of a ladies’ man while he’s away; he hasn’t done that in a while. Each one of them all look at the pair of handcuffs attached to the frame of the bed and smirk at him. He eats them out, listens as seductive tendrils of English bloom into cries, bloom into screams of pleasure and rot back again, shriveled away into broken and sweat soaked Spanish. He sends them home afterward. 

After Bogota, he digs a little deeper, a Colombian immigrant sliding through New Zealand borders on a temporary work visa. His posture changes, more hunched and quiet. He lands in Wellington, stays in a motel on the edge of the city and bartends in a nightclub 3 days a week. 

When he has nothing better to do, he leans back and thinks of Finn, wonders if Finn’s really gonna go for it, finding Ren. How foolish, he thinks. 

How meaningless. 

 

 

 

He dreams of Ren, sometimes, of his high cheeks and his dark robes, He dreams of the torture, knives sliding through the skin like butter. 

For a minute there, it feels like someone is trying to reach down inside him and squeeze his heart. 

For a minute there, it feels like he’s being held underwater. 

For a minute there, he sees death on the horizon after taking so many damn punches to the face. 

Ren had torn him apart, left traps in his skin, and reached into his brain, words that put Poe under the kind of haze that was built into him from the start, the haze that turns him into an organic weapon. 

Ren tried to set him on Finn and Lando and Leia, but one of Lando’s capes took him from behind, swallowed him up and turned him into living stone until they could deactivate him like a goddamn bomb. 

Poe handcuffs himself to the bed again, and tries to get some sleep. 

 

 

 

He flips the work visa well enough, a textbook _Alley Oop_ as Finn would say. Poe misses Finn’s eternal 70’s optimism, his personality trapped within it like a fly in amber. 

Fiji is what most people would call paradise. In his many assignments here, it is merely a backdrop, a setting for a piece of theatre. Often times, it ends in murder: his thighs around someone’s neck in a fitful snap, the click of a gun and the hiss of its silencer, the wet slick of a knife tearing through flesh. He misses those days, sometimes, aches for wetwork again. 

Natalya made him promise it wouldn’t end like that, this time. He adjusts the collar of his Resort uniform and bites his lip while looking at the pair of baby-faced Australians in the corner, sipping Mai Thais. 

The work day slides easily into night, and Poe’s hands feel slimy-cool from the cocktail shakers, but he keeps pouring strong. He thinks of the dance of eagles again, as he trudges back to the employee quarters. He thinks of learning it as a child, another synthetic memory if there ever was one. No matter, his calves itch to leap, get height, flick up underneath him as his arms fully extend, toes tucking under as he returns to the ground. 

He firms his thighs, just to feel the power in them, and his fingers twitch, begging him to extend into that perfect macho lift and—

“Hey,” someone calls from behind Poe, and it feels weird to know he was right on the first try. “You’re that new bartender, right?” 

Poe’s hair may be shorter than he likes but it still falls in his eyes when he turns around and nods. “Yeah, hi. My name’s Juan.” 

“Mark,” the guy smiles at him, and Natalya hadn’t described this part of the man with the monster under his skin, so like them that he can barely even smile without his face breaking in half. “On staff physician. Nice to meet you.” 

“On-staff?” Poe asks. “People come here and get hurt often?” 

‘Mark’ gives a little inward shrug, little mouse that he is, and smacks his lips, “Wealthy vacationers are a clumsy breed. It’s just nice to see another man of a certain age here. It feels like even the management’s a bunch of co-eds most days.” 

An honest observation, Poe notes. “Do you drink?” 

“I’m on duty,” ‘Mark’ replies. “Maybe I’ll have one later.” 

“Well, let me know,” Poe says, as he reaches out for a handshake. “I’ll make you something long and tasty.” 

 

 

 

It doesn’t take long to strike up a cadence with ‘Mark’. It’s an ego boost, yes. It’s a high stakes capture without the pleasure of the kill. Doesn’t matter, Poe thinks, he’s still got it.

The first time they fuck, Mark tries to hide his body. Poe lets him get away with it for a few moments, but eventually pushes his mouth down into all the little crevasses and tastes there, sweat and pain and rage. 

“I can’t fuck you,” Mark tells him. “I can’t get hard since the accident.” 

“It’s okay,” Poe croons, thinking of the sound a neck makes when the tension is finally too much and it must snap. “It’s okay.” 

 

 

 

 

Nickolaj tells Natalya of finally finding her beloved monster. 

“ _Lyubov' moya_ ,” she sighs, her voice on the phone like silk against his palm, “what have they done to you?” 

He does not know if she’s talking about him or Banner. 

 

 

 

 

On his day off, Juan stays in bed until noon.

He gets up, sits on the edge of his bed and pushes the toes of each foot into the floor. They curl under, and his foot bends until he’s knuckling, pain surging up his legs. He takes a deep breath, his mother’s face flicking behind his eyelids, and lifts posture up…up…up-

“You’re putting too much pressure on a place where your foot doesn’t bend, you know,” Mark interrupts. 

“I know,” he says. “Old dancer’s habit.” 

“I had a friend who was a ballerina, once,” Mark says. “Might have danced with the Bolshoi, I’m not sure.” 

“Ballerinas always do tend to burn out a little quick.” 

“Did you know a lot of them?” 

“I was a folk dancer, for a while,” Poe knows he’s asking something else, something deeper than that. “But I traveled with Ballet companies, sometimes, so I know enough of them, I guess. Perhaps we have a mutual friend.” 

“Perhaps,” Mark says. “Us old fogies have to stick together, you know.” 

Poe smiles at that, turns toward Mark and makes his way through the bed to sit in his lap. “Yeah, we do.” 

They kiss, jaws working together. Poe’s eyes go half lidded, as Mark’s hand pushes into his boxer briefs, gives him a long, gentle stroke. 

“Don’t tease,” he murmurs, “don’t tease me right now.” 

Mark just smiles. 

 

 

 

Juan leaves within a month at the resort. 

 

 

 

 

Natalya is as radiant as he remembers, stone-faced and aloof. Nicolaj looks at her with the open adoration that suits his face best, but she’s one of the only women that does not openly preen at his attention. 

The avengers broken and tucked out of sight to lick their wounds, she meets him in a café that is across the street from Stark Tower, blissfully empty after the lunch rush. Privacy in sunlight, how noble. 

“It’s nice seeing you again,” he says, as she turns to face him from the window. 

“Is that what it is?” she asks, casually. 

“You look comfortable,” he insists. “A hero’s life suits you.”

“A shadow’s life suits you as well,” she says, and reaches to hug him. 

He hesitates, their kind…don’t do that easily. They both know they can trade casual insults all day, the last dregs of an all-out war between every mind broken in the red rooms. In the end, they were all orphans, all stolen for one purpose. 

Some protocols run deep. 

He leans in anyway, wraps his hands around her waist. It feels like home, a sibling’s warmth. He grinds his teeth and does it anyway. 

“Is he at least safe?” She asks, as they sit down on rattan wicker chairs. There’s a menu, between the two of them, but they could both survive on cigarettes and coffee and each other like this. It’s nothing they haven’t done before. 

“He’s alive,” Nicolaj says. Wouldn’t call him happy, but let’s say he’s content.” 

“Is he?” 

He nods, “he’s practicing medicine. Still jittery, though.” 

“Yeah,” She smiles, with a kind of warmth that looks so alien on her, “he does that.” 

 

 

 

 

Natalya’s favor done, he waits for her part of the bargain. 

He has a nest waiting untapped in Atwater, so he makes his way back to Los Angeles. The weather is deeply warm, reminds him of Juan and Fiji and ‘Mark’ and all the tourists who never thought of him as anything more than the help.

He takes up milk runs the way other men his age take up fun runs. There’s a spot of enforcement, a few bodyguard jobs. 

He hasn’t been back to this place in almost a decade. He doesn’t remember it being so...clean around here, corners with coffee shops and anything other than the old thift stores, scraping up drudgery from the sales hiding behind skid row. 

He wonders if Finn’s got the same problem, going back to his old neighborhood in New York to see it shiny and new and sterile, broken hearts and terrible ideas. 

He gets a car easily enough, drives around town for one of those ride-share services at night, brushing past strangers, keeping his eyes on the road. 

“I’ll probably turn off after this,” he says, idly. “I’m thinking about goin’ out.” 

He never does. 

 

 

 

Poe’s hand reaches for the top shelf in his apartment. “Are there any snacks in here?” 

“I’ve eaten them all in your absence, Poe Dameron,” Rey responds quickly and grandly. Of course she did, he thinks. What else would you expect an alien warrior queen to do? “I will replace them with the delicacies of Asguard that will be far superior to your human ‘finger foods.’” 

He really could just use potato chips but, “thanks, I guess.” 

“No trouble at all,” She says. 

Poe wants to learn her mannerisms, crawl inside her skin just so he can lift his hand in just the right way, silencing a room because it is the only way voice will be heard. Even worse, he wants to fall to his knees for her, a queen he did not even know he had until 6 months ago. He wants to beg for her patronage, her traveling touch breaking free all the secrets he’s hidden within himself. He wants her to make him look upon Finnick like royalty, seeing the leader he is. 

She’s staring at him. 

 

 

 

 

Finn slides into the backseat of his car easily enough. 

“Fancy meeting you here,” he leans down and checks the transparent pane of his Cloudphone. “Your name is Matías now?” 

“What are you doing in LA?” Poe tries. 

“Nothing in particular,” Finn shrugs, stays coy, pulls the car door closed and looking out the window at the curb. “Looking for my friend and having to contact friends in very high places to move heaven and earth to find him. Very high. Alien places, in fact.” 

“Must suck,” Poe says, after a beat. 

“Turn your phone off, Poe,” Finn says, sounds like a command he would give in the field. “Cancel the ride.” 

“That’s not my name anymore,” he says, simply. “You were going ---“ 

“Around the block,” Finn provides. “You don’t think it’s a coincidence that out of all the people in this city and all the effort to hide everything that it’s strange that I’m in your car?” 

Poe shrugs, as he leans over and stops the app but flicks back onto the map and pulls away from the curb. “I’m getting a burger.” 

“You seem to think you’re no good,” Finn says, “but there’s so much good in you. Fuck, Poe. Why are you doing this to yourself?” 

“I know I’m no good,” Poe replies, checks his rear view mirror and finds the intensity of Finn’s gaze on him. “And this is what I do.” 

 

 

 

 

The hood of the car is warm, but they sit on it anyway in the parking lot of a Carl’s Jr. The turtleneck Poe is wearing looks shallow in the glow of the light seeping out of the building, and Poe tries hard not to pay attention to that. 

Finn, meanwhile, is folded up into himself, hunched over his burger while his drink is between his legs. 

“I read your file, you know,” he says, quietly. “I know about all of it.” 

“So you see me for the killer I am, and you still seem to think you can reform me,” Poe notes. “You should know better than that.” 

“Maybe I should,” Finn says, his face on a broken smile as he jostles the straw around in his cup. It makes the sound of bones scraping together, and Poe’s suddenly remembering Bahrain, “but _Matías_ , I don’t.”

“I know quite a bit about you, too,” Poe keeps up, taking another bite. “We aren’t so different, super soldiers all smell the same.” 

It’s cruel to frame it that way, but it’s true. It’s the same stench he can smell off himself during long, morally ambiguous relations. 

“We’re kind of the same, in the end, I guess,” Finn nods. 

“I was just programmed better.” 

 

 

 

 

Later, they kiss. 

Finn’s wearing leather gloves, and Poe thinks it’s part of an outfit until Finn’s looking down at him and saying, “they’re yours.” That’s a filthier thought than it should be, Finn unknowingly carrying death with him everywhere because it reminds him of Poe. There’s a spark of a thrill in knowing Finn’s sentimentality has clouded his vision. 

Poe pulls away to reach into the middle console for a satchel of lube. 

“Do this often, Dameron?” Finn asks. 

Lube’s handy for lots of things; the glycerin works well with cotton rope for starting fires. 

Anyway, they fuck. They’re crammed into the backseat of this used German Luxury sedan, but Poe’s naked from the waist down and the warmth of Finn is a solid wall to push up against. Poe takes him in to the root with a wet, dirty ease. 

“You missed this,” Poe says as Finn’s face crumples in pleasure and shock.

“Yes,” the word falls from Finn’s mouth, and then he’s reaching out for Poe and clutching him tight and pushing him up against the back of the seat, getting in deep. He scrambles to get his wide hands around Poe’s hips, crushing bruises into skin with the strength he’s barely holding back all wrapped in that leather. Poe’s toes curl under, trying to get at tapping the knuckles just right against hard plastic.

He reaches behind him, pulls the seat down flat and lays back. Finn damn near mounts him, like that, going to his knees and demanding him back onto his cock, spends desperate and harried minutes giving Poe the best fuck of his life, gloved hands reaching under the hem of his shirt, holding onto the slender trunk of Poe’s body for leverage, leverage, leverage. Poe sobs out his pleasure in rough lines. 

They’re quiet after that, hot breath in such a compressed space. It feels like anybody could see them, in the back of this dingy underground parking lot downtown. 

They kiss, joining at the mouth the way they’re joined down below. 

It feels like nothing matters anymore. 

Poe comes on a wet, open sob as his whole body clenches. 

Finn comes like a rifle, his entire body lurching and then the kind of kickback you’re going to be thinking about for days. 

“Keep the gloves,” Poe suggests as he drops Finn back at his hotel. “Wear them more often.”

 

 

 

 

“You didn’t tell me you had a pet all your own,” Natalya smirks at him. “Finnick Storm can’t possibly be his real name, right?” 

Another bar in the middle of the day, sunglasses and an ashtray in the middle of poured concrete and wood. They’re sitting shoulder to shoulder, facing the window into the industrial parking lot. It reminds him of Lagos, and Paris, and the first time they ‘assisted’ a world leader to an untimely demise. 

“It’s complicated,” Nicolaj scowls. 

“It always is,” she nods, sagely, pulls out and lights a cigarette. “So our mutual friend.” 

She pulls out a Stark tablet, and he sighs and thinks about how far they’ve inserted themselves into wars that are so far away from the ones they created for themselves decades ago. 

She hands it over to him, pictures of the Knight of Ren with his saber and those silly cloaks. “CCTV picked him up in Berlin. He’s living with someone, a handler of some type. Ginger, owns cats.” 

“Do you think he’s working for—“ 

“Probably none of the ones we know,” She says. “Talked to a few grey types on my side, didn’t really hear anything.” 

“’Ma will know if he’s order,” he says. “This is solid. Thank you.” 

“Thank Clint,” She says. “Seems like he’s back on proper spy duty since everything went to shit.” 

“Aaron?” he asks. “Back when I was…” 

“Oh yes, I remember,” she chuckles, her green eyes sparkling in the California sun. “Your face still haunts him sometimes. _Lubimka, ushcherb, kotoryy my sdelali._ ” 

“ _Da_ ,” he murmurs as he reaches out and caresses her jaw with the back of his fingers. 

To his surprise, she lets him. 

To his surprise, her mouth still tastes the same. And her skin, and the soft flesh of her cunt. It is as he remembers, layers of salt and citrus and stonefruit on his tongue. 

To his surprise, she still looks beautiful spread against the sheets in his nest. 

Maybe they’re all they have left of a dark youth, and that’s why this can work.

 

 

 

Phasma is like Natalya in a lot of ways, ruthlessly beautiful when she scowls and very cute when she doesn’t. 

She looks down at the pictures on the Stark Tablet. 

“These things can track you, you know,” she says, her clipped British accent sharp. 

“They can,” he agrees. 

The chunky sweater he’s wearing is thickly knit and still not warm enough. Fuckin’ Canada, he thinks, and picks up his cup of coffee again. 

“3, why do you keep bringing me absolute shit--” she grumbles. 

“Yes or no, hmm?” he interrupts. 

She takes off her glasses for a moment, squints at the picture. 

“Yes,” she says. “But it will run cold quick. The order sunk a lot of money into that project, and it’s beginning to show diminishing returns. Sir, I think you should come see this!”

Leia’s voice is woodsy and soft and she still walks like royalty, a case of a former ‘intelligence’ program ‘training’ herself. For a while, Leia collected all of them, Poe thinks, little broken soldiers and Tinker Toys even Fury wouldn’t take. 

She puts a hand on his shoulder, smiles at him gently. “Nice to see you again, Poe.” 

“And you as well, sir,” he smiles. 

“He found Ren,” Phasma says, and holds up the Stark Tablet. 

“I can never get the hang of these things,” Leia smiles, self deprecatingly. “Where was this taken?” 

“My source says Berlin,” Poe points out. 

“And this source, can you trust them?” Leia asked. “Is this another friend of that beautiful Chateau you came from?” 

Lovely words for a brutal question, Poe thinks, “she’s no deader than you are.” 

 

 

 

In the end, it always comes back to Finn nowadays. Rey is back, still dipped in golds and greys like a piece of restored pottery with precious medals in the cracks. She smiles at him, bids him well. 

“I’ve had my Bards write psalms of you to entertain my court,” she tells him. “Although I do not know which line of nobility you shall be named to, because I have no idea of your sirname.” 

“What is your name now?” Finn translates for her, “Or should we just stick to calling you ‘objective’ again? M’lady, can your bards work on something that rhymes with ‘objective’?” 

Poe smiles at that, “the two of you could pick my name, you know. You said you had the files, you could start there.” 

“All those are so unimaginative,” Rey says as she swings her staff from one hand to the other. “My courts do not want to know the tale of Markus the noble or Thomas the asinine.” 

“I could always be truthful,” Poe shrugs. “There’s enough there for an epic.” 

“Aye,” she says, softly as she turns to look at Finn, “my dearest Finnick, what do you say of the tale of Nicolaj Orlov?” 

“It’s his tale,” Finn turns to him, looks him in the eyes. “Whaddya say, Nic?” 

The realization that Finn has ‘read’ his file and spun his own tales for Rey in Poe’s absence is a respite from truth he knows he shouldn’t be allowed to have, with all the things that he has done. 

“I found your man,” Poe changes the subject. “It took some work.” 

“How many people did you kill for it?” Finn asks. 

“About as many as I fucked,” he replies, knows it sounds like a dare. 

“That’s how you get things done when you can’t hide behind a gun, right?” Finn asks, flatly. 

“I didn’t need a gun this time, so it was no real change at all, really,” Poe smiles. “All part of the job, my friend. Are you jealous?” 

“Gentlemen, let’s not get aggressive,” Rey holds up a single, elegant hand. Poe doesn’t know if it’s some insane superpower or just plain experience but he and Finn both abandon their lower grade hostility. She is absolute royalty in every way as she looks at both of them with fire in her eyes, and their curious triangle reconnects again. 

Poe pulls out the Cloudphone in his pocket and tosses it over to Finn. “Berlin. Was hangin' out with another handler of the Order for a while. Dude likes cats.” 

“What am I supposed to do with this?” Finn asks him. 

“I can’t do all the work for you if you want truth and justice and the American way first, you know,” Poe says. “So I expect you’ll be making plans to take him down. I’ll help if you want, but you probably won’t like it.” 

“Did Leia see this?” 

“Yeah,” Poe nods. 

 

 

 

 

“Come with me,” Finn says, when they’re all lying in bed in a heap. “Come with us and I’ll make sure you get your chance to do this right. I’ll call you any name you want, I’ll look the other way when your knives come out. But I need you with me on this. I know I shouldn’t, but I trust you and I need your help.”

Poe’s toes curl under and he rests the knuckle of his foot onto the mattress, pulling his calf tight with pressure. Rey senses what he’s doing, wraps her fingers in his hair and pulls swiftly, another layer of pain coursing down his body to meet in his gut and his spent, twitching cock. Poe thinks about himself, thinks about what it means to be a tool capable of being recalibrated. 

"We'll need you," Rey says. "I don't believe Finnick and I can do this alone. You are valuable, and you won't be stolen, again." 

They love him, he thinks. What suckers, to love someone as numb as he is.

Finn holds him like some precious antique, and as Rey lets his hair go all Poe can say is, “I’ll hold you to that.”

**Author's Note:**

>  _You had me drivin' far enough to switch the time zone_  
>  You was the best of all time at the time though  
> Yeah, you wasn't mine though  
> But I still drove 30 hours  
> And I, I still drove 30 hours to you
> 
>  
> 
> In the Marvel comic book world, there was only ever one Male graduate of the Red Room program.


End file.
